Learning to play the music
by Dr.SuperWhoJohnLock
Summary: John is trying to deal with Sherlock death, but after a trip to a therapist, his life changes. A unconventional view of a Post Fall fanfic. JohnLock and hinted Mystrade. If you do not like Males with Males, DO NOT READ. Teen for now, but may become M in the future.
1. Chapter 1

**Learning to play the music**

**I do not own sherlock, BBC does. I am just a person who is obsessed with JohnLock. Please do some feedback, this is my first Fanfiction. if you don't support Males with Males. DON'T READ! simple. Any sort of comment is welcome. That would show that someone would read it.**

**Chapter one**

* * *

_"SHERLOCK!" I yelled, feeling my vocal cords crack as a yelled to my best friend. Sherlock stood upon the ledge of Bart's. His head faced forward never looking, not daring to look, down. My phone was useless in my hands as he threw his away. As I yelled, he ignored me and jumped, looking like a fledgeling bird trying to fly. Tipping forward on the ledge, he fell. His coat billowing around his slender body as he plummeted to earth. I didn't see him land, the building blocked my view. But, I heard him hit the pavement._

I woke with a start, my face wet with tears and my sheets torn wildly on my bed. I was shaking ,almost violently, as I remembered the sick, wet, crunch of my friends last moments with me. I felt sick in every way possible, body and mind. I was still crying silently , not caring to stop. I knew what Sherlock would say if he saw me. I wished he would. Wished he would sneer and laugh at me. Wished he was alive. Wished that sometimes , I was not.

But I had to. I had to live because I owed Sherlock. His last wish was that I lived. I knew it. He wouldn't jump without a reason. He _was_ real, not a fake as he claimed in his last moments. He had to have jumped to save me. I wouldn't let his cool and calm facade fool me into believing he was a machine, no matter I said. He was kind and sweet and caring, even if he didn't know it, I knew. He said he didn't have friends but I knew that was false. He had me. He had his brother. He had . He had friends.I looked at the calendar on the wall of my room. _Wednesday, _it read. Today was the day I went to see my new therapist.

I groaned inwardly and wiped my face, in a attempt to wipe the tears only seceding in smearing them. I went downstairs and saw his empty chair and the lone couch. I had wanted to get rid of it but I never could or would. It would be like getting rid of him, again. I had gotten rid of his lab equipment and threw away all the papers that he hadn't written on, as those where special. I kept the chair, his clothes, and his violin. The beautiful violin case was left on the window seal, never to be opened. I missed ,almost painfully, the music that the violin could make. I grabbed my coat and walked down the stairs. I almost never saw since... She had stopped in now and then in the beginning, so had Lestrade . Lestrade... Humph. they had learned soon that I did not want company in my time of grief.

I caught a cab fairly quickly and was trying to keep from thinking till I got to the office door. When I arrived I paid the cabby and walked inside the grey building. The waiting room was a comforting color that resembled cream. I walked over to the marble desk and sighed my name. Feeling a bit of a strange feeling of place, I sat on one if the many plush chairs. The wait was very troubling, as I tried not to think of the conversations that are about to occur.

After the wait stretched to 30 minutes, the therapist came into the waiting room. She was a nice lady by the name of Scarlet Henley. She was 5 foot 2 and blonde. She might have been my type but lately, I haven't been caring or in the mood. I followed her room at the end of the hall. The office was warm and had a single window with two chairs, angled at each other and a coffee table in the middle. I smiled as the place reminded me of Baker Street and the grimaced at the thought.

She sat down in one chair, pulled out my file, pinned it to the clipboard and clicked her pen. I said nothing, the silence was heavy with unspoken words and unhad conversations. I was dreading the talk and the aftermath of it. I haven't been to a therapist sense I met Sherlock. Sherlock had, unknowingly, helped me through one of the roughest times of my life. Now he was the reason I was here.

She cleared her throat and asked me in a soft soothing voice that I instantly didn't trust.,

" John, we both know why you are here. Why don't you tell us? Just to make things clear." When I didn't answer. She had asked me to talk about one thing I can't, or would not. " John, tell me about Sherlock."

Inside I was waging a war, should I say why and remember, or not and forget? I chose the speak why I am paying her this heavy price. I was here for a reason. " I am here because..." I took a shaky breath. " my best friend Sherlock is..." Should I say it? If I do it becomes real, he becomes really " dead." My voice caught on that dreadful word as I fought back the tears. I am a soldier. I don't cry.

But I do, and I did. I cried silently as I looked out of the sole window. My head full of that sound. That awful, awful, sound. The sound that haunts my nights and days. She just nodded her head and wrote down calmly, _admitted the death._ For some reason that I do not know, this made me hate this blonde. How _dare_ she write him down as a casual event. He was one of a kind. That pushed me beyond my breaking point, something I had been close to since his fall. I got out of the chair, ignoring her protest and looks of surprise, and walked out the door before I could do something I regretted.

I walked past the waiting room, and the astounded look and out the door. I took one look at the clouds that covered the sky, then I started to walk. I walked in a daze of grief that I had held off for so long. Not caring, not thinking. Just walking. I walked without aiming towards a target. I walked for what seemed hours or, may have been minuets. I walked on. And on. And on. It wasn't till I saw lights and heard a shrill horn that I was aware that I had walked into a street and into the path of a moving car.

The car hit me hard, to the point that I flew a solid meter. I didn't blackout the second my head smacked the pavement. I just felt pain everywhere, head, chest, arms, legs. Somewhere in my mind the soldier, the survivor, was crying out that I needed to survive at all cost. But the other part just thought that this is what _he_ felt. A impact and pain. I was somewhat calmed by the thought and relaxed. At that point I blacked out.

I only heard patches of the conversations but I understood.

_" Is he dead?! I didn't see him! I swear!"_

_" Everyone backup, I'm a doctor."_

_" He just walked into the street! I think he wanted to get hit."_

Nothing entered my head for a blissful while. I didn't awake till I heard a voice calling my name, but it felt like he was talking through water. I didn't want to go to it. It was peaceful here. I liked it. But the voice wouldn't take a no. I opened my eyes to a blinding white light. I was in a hospital. Great. I looked at the man who made the voice, it was a doctor. Why was I here.

Then I remember, the haze and the car. The doctor had a bored expression on his face. I knew the feeling. Being a doctor, I know after a long time, people start getting on every last nerve. My head was pounding. The doctor asked me the usual questions, where are you, who are you, what is the date, and so forth. When I thought he was going to tell me the usual, don't go to sleep. He just walked out of the door and Lestrade and Molly walked in. I stiffened at the sight of Lestrade. I haven't spoken to him since he betrayed Sherlock and me. Thinking Sherlock was a kidnapper. I can never forgive him. Playing into Moriarty's hand and forcing Sherlock to become a criminal. Lestrade saw me stiffen and looked at the ground. He knew what he did. Molly just put he hand on her mouth and gasped. I guess I must look bad.

Lestrade spoke first in a hushed voice," Why did you do it?"

Molly looked down. What was he talking about. I just end looked at him. Hopefully I didn't need to speak my words, as I didn't trust my mouth around him. He looks at me once more and in a forceful voice asked the same question,

"Why did you do it?"

I had to speak up at this point, I clearly didn't know what he was asking me.

"Do what?" My voice was frail and broke. I coughed and tried again. "Do what?" Still weak

" You know what." When I didn't reply he spoke once more.

" Why did try to kill yourself?" He whispered this last part like it was a secret. I understood at once, I vaguely remembered that women when I got hit, '_He just walked into the street, I think he wanted to get hit.'_ They believed I tried to kill my self. I would have laughed, if I wasn't so damned tired.

" I didn't try to kill myself, I was just walking."

Clearly Lestrade didn't believe me. I thought about that one voice, telling me to give up. I might have tried to kill myself. But I don't think I did. I wouldn't do that. Not now. Not to his memory. I looked at Lestrade, trying show him that I didn't want to. But Lestrade wasn't looking at me. I looked at Molly, she too wasn't. They truly believe it.

" Lestrade, you betrayed Sherlock and now you come on here and try to do the same thing to me! Look at me! You can't just give into popular belief again!" Lestrade flinched at the truth of my words.

" I didn't betray Sherlock. I was doing my job. I'm not betraying you, you are betraying yourself. Don't try to blame this on me." He almost yelled at me but I knew he was convincing himself rather than me.

I didn't regret provoking him. I regretted using sherlocks name to do it. I. Thought I wouldn't do that to him, yet I did. I looked at Lestrade with a look that showed my hate of the man. what i didn't know was that I was looking at him like Sherlock did to people he didn't like.

_" Out."_ I didn't yell at him. I _commanded_ him. Lestrade was going to say something more till Molly looked at him. He sighed and stepped out of the door, slamming it. Then I realized how bad my head was hurting and fell back against the bed. Molly looked frightened, I understood why. I had changed.

She walked over and didn't say a thing. I knew what she wanted to say. Molly opened her mouth and closed it again. She was thinking of how to tell me something.

" Just _tell_ me already Molly." I didn't yell at her. I was just still irritated from Lestrade.

" John, don't blame Lestrade. He had to do that. And don't blame yourself, you couldn't say anything that could have changed it. He had to jump. I don't know why. He just had to." She looked as tho she wanted to say more but thought better of it. I had hoped to stay away from this conversation. I looked at her in a new light. She was smarter then she looked.

" Molly, I already knew this. Why else would he" I couldn't say it "do that. Now why are you here? It's just a concussion. No big deal." I was hoping to direct the conversation to me, not Sherlock. At this her face got red.

" _Only a concussion!_ John you walked right into the street! I don't care if you didn't think about killing yourself! It happened John!" See calmed down and spoke softly

" John I know you were close the Sherlock, closer than anyone I believe. This must be hard for you but, you need to move on. Get a hobby! Don't let him ruin your life John. I would know about this."

She was right. I couldn't let him do that. I just nodded as she left, even though she couldn't see me. I looked up at the ceiling. Looking for answers. At some point sleep took me. Sleeping was a mistake. My brain was still swimming with Sherlock and his fall. I was still emotionally scrambled from my encounter with Molly and Lestrade. This was the perfect combination for a nightmare. Tho these weren't uncommon since the fall, they still hurt. And this one was different.

_The day was cloudy so I could see him. I could see his black coat that matched his raven hair so well. He looked like a almighty raven, perched on the ledge of Saint Bart's. The wind was facing me, blowing the coat and hair towards me. He never looked so well, yet never looked so broken. My phone was still in my hands when I heard him, 'look at me, keep your eyes on me'. I did. As he threw his phone away, my phone useless against him and his quest. 'SHERLOCK!' I yelled trying to keep him from jumping. I knew what happened next. The sound. I closed my eyes and waited. Nothing. "John, John. I am so sorry. I didn't know this would hurt you so bad. I had to John. I had to. Moriarty was going to kill you john. I had to. I'm sorry. I'm so, so, sorry. Please forgive me."_

I snapped my eyes open. I found my eyes, once again, wet with tears. I still heard his low voice that rumbled in his chest. I still felt his breath on my ear. Damn these nightmares. They always make me think of things that could be. What was that voice? That wasn't there before. Now I know my brain is scrambled. Sherlock saying sorry, multiple times? He would never. But yet I could still hear the rumble of his deep voice.

I am determined to get out of this hospital bed! One more night and I will go crazy! I swung my legs over the side, my head protesting At the sudden movement. As I placed my feet on the floor I hissed at the sudden cold. I went over to the chair and put on my cloths. Just as I pulled my fleece jumper over my head there was a knock at the door. The nurse walked in and told me where to go for the paper work. As I walked out the doors of the hospital I reviewed what Molly said, get a hobby. That sounded about right, but what could I do? When a black car pulled up in front of me I had no choice but to go meet my 'caretaker', Mycroft.

Since... The fall, Mycroft has been checking up on me, just to keep me from doing something drastic I think. I now see why Sherlock hated his brother, nothing is more annoying than a person in high places mothering you. The car ride was uncomfortable.

No more does he take me to obscure places, since there is no person to hide these meetings from. Just as you would think, Mycroft's office, in his mansion, was extremely posh. Leather seats, one full couch, beautiful tables, lamps, and a full long windows. Mycroft, as always, was sitting in a tall leather bound chair, tea in hand. Tea sounded good.

Mycroft looked down at me and had an assistant get me some tea. He didn't speak for a while and just gazed at me, not hiding his piercing eyes. I shifted in my seat, trying to shake of this uneasy feeling. Only when the assistant returned, tea cart in tow, did Mycroft Speak.

" As you know, I have had you under constant watch. Let me ask you this, how did you find all the cameras in your flat? I put them in high places john. You can reach them. So that means someone has been in your flat, taking out my cameras. You should not return. This person may be friend or foe, but let's not find out."

This had me wanting to chunk something at this man. I set my tea down on the table. I had to breathe slowly to keep from attacking him. " You had my flat bugged?" Slowly I asked him, not trusting my mouth, or hands for that matter. He looked at me and nodded calmly taking a sip of tea.

" Why John, you have a slight anger problem now. You need to keep this in check. Can't have you in jail for punching someone now. That would be unfortunate." He took another sip of tea.

I stood up and walked out, not being able to handle him any didn't try to stop me. Knowing there would be a car out front, so I went out back. I was wrong. Mycroft, the smart bastard, knew I would do this and had a car out back with the door open. I climbed inside and the phone was on and Mycroft's voice came over the radio, " We wouldn't want one more incident would we? " I wanted to hurt Mycroft. Why didn't he try to save Sherlock? Why does he have cameras on me now and not then? Why!

" Mycroft, why don't you tell Lestrade hi from me. He left in a poor sport at the hospital. I can see you have been close since Sherlock died. Very close. Good luck." The line clicked at this point. There, I don't think he will be kidnapping me any more. I could tell by the impression left in my seat and a stain on the couch against the wall. The impression was in the form of Lestrade's sitting. And the stain, well, you can guess. Careless Mycroft. I could spend that long with Sherlock and not pick up a few tricks.

Sherlock has chained me in many different ways. These past 3 months have been horrid, as I have began to realize how much he has changed me. I got out of the car and into the door. Ms. Hudson was out. What did Mycroft mean to do by telling me the cameras were out? What could he gain? I sat disown in my chair and gazed at Sherlocks. A hobby she said. My gaze shifted from the chair to the window, the to the violin case. A hobby. I almost jumped out of my chair as I ran to my laptop and looked for violin teacher in the area. A hobby I shall have.


	2. Chapter 2

I am so sorry that I haven't been writing, well I have,but I didn't post because I didn't know people have read this. I will try to post at least twice a week, if not more. This will hopefully be a long story. Thank you SO much for reading

* * *

Sherlock paced around the room. The pale light dappling his hair. His eyes where sharp but glazed, telling he was not in the room. He was within himself, in his mind palace. His usual attire was switched for a grey hoodie and black skinny jeans. The light was making his soft marble skin a sickly grey. With the clothes he looked like a living shadow. His black hair matching the black cloth covering the windows behind him. He reached into his pocket and fished out an old style flip phone, a burner. He quickly dialed a number, and spoke quickly in fluent French.

As the conversation progressed his face got red with anger. He threw the phone down, grabbing at his hair. He stopped his pacing and picked up the phone, checking for damage. He walked over to the sole chair in the small flat and flopped down on the well-used cloth. He covered his eyes with his hands pressing hard till he saw stars. He picked up the phone once more and called his informer and college back in London, Irene Adler.

He and Irene had been in touch since he saved her life. When he was in dire need he called her, to help him fake his death and cut down Moriarty's exquisite web of crime. He had, so far, cut down a good percentage of the web, yet a few strong strands remained. When Moriarty died, most of the web disintegrated over time. Sherlock had just taken out the main driving force of the web, Sebastian Moran. Sherlock had an operative still with the slowly dying individual when he got a call from the hander. Moran had said something, something very important.

"Irene, what is this about John? Sebastian told me he was hit with a car. I don't believe he was in a position to lie to me at the time." I dropped easily into my mask of cool calm. My voice as clear as always. Yet my body language told different. My hands griped the phone tightly as possible. While my back was arched tensely over my legs. My elbows where on my knees.

"Well Sherl, we both know he is okay now don't we? If he weren't I would have told you, possibly. What happened was he tried to kill himself, as I believe. He walked into the street, without blinking. Now let's get on with or mission shall we? In better, useful, news I found another string still standing in our web." Her voice sounded like she as laughing at me, which she most likely was. She knew what this information would do to me, to my mind. Her earlier attraction I had grown more over the 6 months. And in no way did this make her sweeter to me, if any way it made her crueler.

"You know very well that's not my name as well as I only care for half of that information. Get me more Intel on John. If not I won't help you in the slightest. Without me you can do anything." As my voice was annoyed my body and mind was agonized with worry. All because of me. All because of me. John, my John. John was in danger and I was hiding in a horrible hotel in France. I had been in Paris since I jumped. Hiding and sending Irene to the places Moriarty's hold was still strong. Even in death he was still a problem that had to be dealt with.

"We both know that now don't we Sherl? Well let's see here. He was discharged with a concussion. No Major injuries. Now to the major topic. Where is Tenlen? Remember, the one that ALMOST SHOT ". I cringed at the nickname she so persistently used. I had rebelled against it the first month. She is very head-strong and persistent.

I was relived at the information on John. We were ok, physically. All that I knew about him said he was a fighter; he would fight death and defeat it. Why he would walk into the street baffled me. Even if he had tried to kill himself he would have waited for a bus. Not whatever weak car hit him. It was an accident. Good.

The problem with this Tenlen is that he is very good at covering his tracks. After he left Baker Street, he disposed of the car, outfit, tools, and wiped prints and lit the car on fire. Of course there is still evidence to be found, yet that evidence is still in London. I cannot go to London for a year or two, at the earliest. This was to track down the 'web' of criminals Moriarty had grouped together. I had taken the powerful players out of the equation, yet the lesser criminals still cause trouble.

If I had to guess, Tenlen will be in a literal hole in the ground. A quick trip to the flat after I jumped smelled of sandy dirt, which is very common in England. I didn't want to go to London. But it was looking like I had to. I keep telling myself that I will not go to see John. I can't go to see John. Yet, I can see John in this small flat. Since I can't play my violin, I paint. John never knew. Lately, when I am in my palace, I pick up a brush and some acrylic paints. All over this flat were paintings of John. I had paintings of Baker Street, London, and of the Rooftop.

The Rooftop painting was to help me see the sniper Moran when I was still looking for him. I did, and he regretted point a sniper gun at John. At the time I didn't him, no, I didn't observe him. I saw him in the window, yet I didn't register him till I painted it to see him clearly. I had also got Victor for Lestrade. The only one left was Tenlen. I sat down and went into my mind palace to thank of the map around where the car had burned. He could have hid in the abandoned... "Ahhhhh" The silence was ruined with an obscene sound. The phone, who could be calling me? Of course it was Irene.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter 3**_

* * *

**I want to thank my betas CarryonWincestsons, siri, and Microsoft word for correcting my horrid spelling. If you read PLEASE leave a review. Anny love is appreciated. Thank you.**

* * *

I was playing a simple piece while Ms. Kidd studied my body placement and wrist movement. It took me a week to learn how to read music then learn a few notes on the violin. I was distracted for a split second and my bow hit the side of the violin for the 20th time, effectively ending the easy song. I don't understand how Sherlock could do this so effortlessly, I constantly made the wrong note and hit the side of the violin. But if it was the last thing I did, I would learn how to play this damn instrument. I had gotten a new, used violin; I just couldn't use Sherlock's. Still every time I play the violin, no matter how terrible, I felt close to Sherlock. Like he was still here, working on a case.

Ms. Kidd corrected my wrist and had me play the piece 5 times, without error, before ending the session, which took up 20 more minutes. I was horrible at this, yet at time so was Sherlock. I paid her for the lesson and she headed out, but not before stopping to talk to Ms. Hudson. By the first trip, they had been talking endlessly at every visit. I put up my violin and placed it by Sherlock's. I walked over to my chair and sat down to watch some crap telly. My mind strayed to all the nights Sherlock and I had watched, well, tried to watch, crap telly while he shouted out why this man was the father, and who had cheated on whom. At the time it had ben insufferable. Now, it was a sweet memory.

A lot of the memories of our time together had morphed into a, kind of bliss. When I was annoyed, I remember it as a sweet feeling. I miss being annoyed by Sherlock. I also miss finding body parts in the kitchen, oddly enough. I missed Sherlock more than I thought I ever could. Yet, he could never come back. He is gone forever. Nothing could fix this. Nothing.

I smiled sadly at the telly and turned it off. I had an appointment in the morning. I was going to go to my new therapist by the name of Mary. She was a sweet girl. She was short with short blonde hair. I had thought on multiple occasions about asking her out, yet she hasn't shown any interest towards me. I stood slowly, feeling my shoulder grown. The wet weather has made it act up. I walked to the stairs, thinking about my wound and how it got there when I saw Sherlock's bedroom door. I had never been inside there since Sherlock was drugged at Irene's. I blushed slightly at the memory of finding Sherlock in a room with a naked women standing over him. Then the blush changed into a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. I looked back towards the door. I still felt an attraction towards it, to see how he lived without people around to influence him. I walked slowly towards it and eased it open.

A musty scent blanketed the room, yet the faint scent of Sherlock lingered. It was bare except for a poster of the human skeleton marked with pen, showing pressure points and weaknesses. The bed looked slept in, yet, it was sprinkled with a small amount of dust. The dresser was in the darkest corner, giving me a sense foreboding. I smiled at the poster; it was just so like Sherlock to have this where he slept. I walked over to the dresser, thinking I would find some experiments he forgot about. No, he left when he fell, not forgot. I pulled on the door and found it locked. I tried again with no avail.

I was intrigued by this dresser. Why would you keep your clothes locked up? I turned to leave then thought, where would he keep a key, if he were hiding it from me? High up, since I was a short man. I grabbed a step-ladder from the kitchen and made my way to every high place in the house. By the time I got to my room, I was only thinking of sleeping till I saw my closet. Would he?

He did. In the back of the top shelf was a small key. That bastard. I grabbed the key and made my way to his room. The key fit into the dresser yet, it wouldn't turn. Had I gotten it wrong? For some reason I just knew that this was right. I felt around the top. The prick. It was there, a latch. I hooked my finger under the latch and pulled. Hearing a click. I turned the key. I opened the door, my heart racing. Nothing, nothing but clothes. I shifted them to look behind and found no latch, high or low. Feeling put down I went to my bed and fell asleep.

_"John leave! He can't be saved!" The hot, dry Afghanistan heat hit my face, soaking up any perspiration on my head. The London streets where covered with sand and peppered with dust-devils._

_"I'll be damned if I let this soldier die!" I ran up to the building where Sherlock was wearing a bullet proof vest and his coat._

_"I can save you! I'm a doctor! I should be able to save you!" Sherlock didn't hear me, or didn't want to. He shook his head, threw his gun away and jumped. I heard a shot and felt my shoulder be ripped apart by the bullet. In the background I heard the song staying alive, the song Moriarty played at the pool. The song I now associated with death itself_

I jumped to my feet and felt my bad leg buckle underneath me. I stood up and hobbled to the door, where my cane was. Grabbing onto the cane, I made my way down stairs. I put the kettle on while I slowly and tenderly rolled my shoulder. The dream had my psychosomatic limp and my shoulder acting up again. I shuddered just thinking of the dream of Sherlock and Afghanistan. I drank my tea while thinking of the dresser in Sherlock's bedroom. I would have to investigate more when I get back.

I made my way down the stairs and out the door. It took me longer than expected to get a cab, which made me later to the appointment. This office was friendlier then the last, the receptionist smiled when she saw me and made a point to welcome me by my name. I know she was doing this to have me open up with the therapist, yet it still made a big difference. I sat down in a chair that reminded me like Sherlock's at the flat. I waited in the waiting room for about 10 minutes when Mary came to get me.

She walked with a purpose into the waiting room as her eyes sought out me. Her eyes lightened when she found me and waked for me to follow. I was surprised about being taller than her. This was a weird feeling, being taller then another. It gave me a sense of control and calm. We walked into her room and I rushed to open the door for her, once a gentlemen always a gentleman.

Her room was dimly lit and small. A single lamp sat in the far right corner filled the one couch that sat in the middle of the room. My cane clicked slightly on the wooden floor as I made my way to the couch and sat down. I laid my cane down so that it was out of the way and mind. Mary went to a small counter that has an electric kettle and tea bags. After a few minutes of comfortable silence and tea drinking she started our conversation.

"It's about time we talked about what you miss about Sherlock. Now, I will admit you have made a lot of progress for 5 sessions, but that does not mean that you are 'healed' quite yet. Let's start with the little things you miss."

The small couch made us sit closer then you normally would, yet this was comforting in ways that I could not explain. I could lie and say I wasn't attracted to her, but I won't. She was not, by the normal standards, beautiful. She has a mouse-like face with a pinched noes and thin face. Her hair was a creamy blond that was cut to hug her jawbone. She didn't wear glasses, as I thought she would, and was always wearing very modest clothing. Unlike many other therapists, she did not have that silky, commanding voice. She had a normal voice and this helped me trust her all the better.

I chuckled before I replayed to her, "With Sherlock there was no ' little things ' to miss. Every day was different in different ways yet fit a routine that I do not pretend to understand. I would wake up at different hours and in many different ways. I would go downstairs and see whatever Sherlock was doing, or yelling about. If I was able I would make tea for us both in our cups and drink them together. When we could drink our tea he wouldn't rush me as much till we were done. I would most likely be rushed out of the house and into a crazy adventure that strained my body and mind. We would run home, probably literally, and watch some crap telly till I went up to bed. And when we were home, on a case or not, I could always hear his music."

I paused after my speech and found my answer, "so I guess that the 'little thing' that I miss the most is his music. When he was angry, it sounded like he was killing the violin. When he was sad, the music could bring tears to your eyes. When he was bored, the music sounded beautiful in a monstrous way, filling your mind and calling up happy and sad memories at the same time. I know this is why I am trying to play the violin, to recreate this music. I loved the feeling in that music that showed a Sherlock that none had ever seen. One that expressed his emotions in a beautiful way, and called the same emotions in you. He claimed to be a sociopath; I do not believe him a bit. He had as much emotion as me, if not more. So I miss our connection, I miss our life. And most of all I miss him. More than I ever thought I would, but I so dearly miss him. I would do almost anything to have him back."

Mary never said a word during his speeches. He needed to get this out of his system. She barely breathed when he talked of his music, trying to imagine this man. She could never understand what john felt, nor understand the man he described. His stories of Sherlock were more heart-retching then those of a long married couple where one had just departed. His face was wistful, painfully sad, and happy at once as he talked of Sherlock. As he talked more, the more happiness fled and wistful and sad greedily swallowed the remaining space in his expression. When he finished he turned away, probably trying to hide tears. She let him compose himself before she spoke

"Now, I know this might be uncomfortable, but, did you love him?"

John thought at this, what did she mean? Did she mean romantically love? For a good 2 minutes he thought it over and over again. He could never find an answer no matter how hard he tried. He remembered after their first case and chase. Leaning on the wall in the hallway, trying calm their breaths and high on adrenalin. He never felt such a demanding urge to kiss a person, mans or woman, then at the minute. If someone hadn't knocked on the door... He just might have. Later he blamed the adrenalin, but now. Did he love Sherlock? The answer sprang into his mind. Yes. He loved Sherlock. Even though he wanted to kill him every day he was with him. He loved him. He loved his dead best friend.

John felt his head collide with the plush couch behind him as he closed his eyes. He loved Sherlock. How has he never known? And now he could never tell him. Now he couldn't see Sherlock again. He cried silently for the rest of the short session, despite Mary's tries to calm him. He was sad and mad. Mad at Mary for making him realize this. The overwhelming rage at Moriarty squashed all other thoughts. He stopped silently crying and stood. Made a short comment to Mary and marched out the door. He would find Moriarty and make him pay. Now he just needed help and he knew just the men to call. It was time to make up with Lestrade and work with Mycroft.

He called Lestrade first, to apologize for being a spiteful prick. He pulled out his phone and started walking to NSY. The phone ringed for a while until John thought that Lestrade would just ignore him till,

"Hello? John are you alright?" Lestrade sounded rushed and frightened, clearly amazed that John would call him then worried at why.

"Yes hello, I quite fine. I just called to apologize and to tell you that I need your help with a 'project' I want to start." John was halfway there and wanted to tell him this over the phone, so he couldn't see look on John's face when he explained his new 'project'.

"It is fine. But what is this project?"

"It is... Um... Finding Moriarty and his team." John waited for Lestrade's outburst at this and pulled the phone a safe distance from his ear.

" WHAT! YOU CAN'T TAKE THEM DOWN! EVEN MYCROFT WON'T EVEN TRY! "Well, at least John knew that Lestrade still cared for him.

"Because I just realized exactly what they took from me." John waited, not knowing if he wanted to tell Lestrade.

"And that would be?"

"I just realized that I. That I" John took a deep breath, "love Sherlock" he spoke quietly, waiting for judgment and laughter

"Took you long enough. Everyone knew you did, well, except you and Sherlock." Lestrade spoke respectfully and quietly, telling john he understood.

"I am right outside, so hurry up Lestrade."

"Wait, what? Am I going somewhere?"

"Yes, we are going to see Mycroft and ask for his help."

"I never said I wanted to help you."

"You didn't need to. I knew"

"John, you are slowly turning Into Sherlock."

"I know."


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter 4**_

_**I thank you for all of the support. I am sorry for the short sherlock chapters. PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE leave a review. I mean wow, 614 people have read it but only 4 have left a review. EVEN IF YOU HATE IT, leave one, please. Also there is a joke/reference in here that you might find. If you think you have found it, leave a review to see. Here is a hint, Richard Brook.**_

* * *

I walked around the small flat finding any articles that might give away my alias as Fin Preno. Fin was a Bartender in Rue, France. The bar he worked at was always crowded, due to the fact the Rue's only attraction was a magnificent building that was right across the small street. It was called the _Brasserie Du Centre_, or the brewery center. It was mostly for tourists. The town was full of old style buildings and small streets. The building adjacent to The Brass, as I call it, was the _Place du_ _Général Leclerc_. This was named after a French General. In English it means Place Of General Leclerc. Few people came to see it, but it was enough to have money in this small town. The streets are small, so walking was favorable. I could walk to The Brass in 7 minutes, so I had 4 to clean up.

I did not have any of my equipment to do lavish experiments here, nor did I have my violin. Yet I still kept a firm regiment of clean around here. I left all my possessions in London, so that was not an issue. But I did have habits to break that might give away my alias. No matter how hard I try there are still small things that I'll miss, until I find them. There were no items this time, I was getting better. I looked in the mirror once more at myself, and then I put on my facade of Fin. He was hunched over a bit, walked with a small limp, and wore tight jeans, glasses, and long black hoodies. It disgusted me the smallest bit, to dull the bright shine in my eyes that flashed my intelligence. I had to be the typical male.

I walked out the door and fumbled with my keys a bit, you can never be too careful while hiding from Mycroft and Moriartys web. I pushed the glasses further up my nose and set off. I made it look like I had a small knee problem in my left knee. It was annoying to not walk at my full potential, but my appearance must be kept, if it meant John were to survive. I reached the Brass just at the time I was supposed to be there. The manger smiled when he saw me and waved me to get behind the bar. There was a regular there, wanting the famous beer.

The night was a boring mess of bad French and English. I had come to this town because it was near Bristol. I easily crossed over to France and now 'lived' in Rue. During that trip, I wished I had told Mycroft of my plan. But I needed him to act adoringly. I only told Irene. I had used the corps of the man Moriarty used to get those kids be afraid of me. The man had been killed by Moriarty by pushing him off of a building, probably in rehearsal for me, and was perfect for my use. With a smashed skull, it could fool my brother. Irene had switched his DNA and fingerprints for mine. I now took his old life here, his name was slightly changed, for personal reasons, but his life and look stayed the same.

I had survived by landing in a blown up jump pad, like the ones they use on movie sets. After that, I climbed in a cloth bag in a trash truck and hoped off after a few stops. I had walked to the outskirts of London, dodging cameras, while Irene drove me to Bristol. From there a boat to France, then Rue.

My life here has been boring and simple. The only things I have that mean something are the paintings, that I hide, and the burner phone, my connection with Irene. I nodded to the manager, Fernando, and started to walk home. The night was a crisp cold with a faint wind. The sky was a clear midnight blue. The stars where shining, twinkling in the dark. The nights where magical, away from the hassle of London. I stopped in my tracks and copied this image in my mind, to paint later. I started back home and went for my keys. The door was open. Facade gone, I stalked low to the ground when I entered. I made no sound. I measured each move, glad that I remembered every creaky floor board.

I crouched down a peered around the room, my feet all alert for any movement on the floor. Just in case I kept most if my weight in my right knee, still keeping appearances, I felt the slightest of movements behind me and spun around, grabbing an umbrella and raising it to strike.

"Going to kill me with an umbrella now are we Sherl?"

Irene! I loosened my stance and walked over to close the door. Still gripping the umbrella I sat down in the couch and glared at Irene. Mad at her for sneaking in my flat and risking my cover.

"What are you doing here Irene?" I sighed

"I have very serious news "her tone to it was anything but that, yet she was here. What had happened? I looked at her and motioned for her to continue. I started to take of the glasses when she started to talk.

"Well, something unexpected happened in London that compromises our position." Her stance, eye flickering to where the paintings of John where kept, at the map of France. Oh no.

"He is coming here to look for Moriarty's web." I let my head fall back and hit the couch. I had believed John would have stayed in London. His past told me this. When he got back from the war he couldn't move from where he had been, possibly because of his limp, and just kept going to the therapist. Why has he changed his pattern? Now his military training would possibly take him here. It seems like a reasonable place for people fleeing London, as I did. I had secured a place here now, how could I leave? There were still 14 people to find before the web was gone. What to do?

Irene said nothing when she saw me slip into my mind palace. She just walked over to my bedroom and went to sleep, though not before stripping naked. She might not press Sherlock, but that does not mean that she couldn't try.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was painting a new picture of John. This time instead of the normal John that he knew, the one who was a kind, caring, doctor. He was painting John as a solider. In his head he was thinking of what he was going to do. Was he going to stay here under the alias of Fin, or was he going to find another place to hide.

The night continued on, no pattern breaking. The same quiet night, no sirens, no car horns or yelling: Just quiet.


End file.
